


Fancy Festivities

by human_dreamer_etcetera



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, Gen, Humor, roommate shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:28:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28296789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/human_dreamer_etcetera/pseuds/human_dreamer_etcetera
Summary: Morse and Strange get home after working late to find their flat looking significantly more festive than they left it.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 19





	Fancy Festivities

**Author's Note:**

> I've been feeling a strong need for some Christmas fluff, so here you go! Another "bang it out in one go," only vaguely edited piece, so please excuse any typos, etc. Inspired by a post I reblogged on Tumblr a couple weeks ago, a scene from Teachers (which I have not yet seen), where Shaun Evans' character gets absurdly into Christmas decorating, much to the chagrin of everyone around him. I've actually been working on another fic with a similar "how do we explain to Fancy that he doesn't pay rent and therefore he doesn't actually live here" side premise, so I guess these are sort of set in the same universe? The "Fancy is my favorite himbo" cinematic universe, if you will.
> 
> Anyway! Merry Christmas, and I hope you enjoy! And thank you for a great year of writing for such a fun fandom.

The relentless clock ticks satisfyingly just out of rhythm with the music Morse has been making with his pen for the past half hour, or maybe month - time is a constantly shifting, vaguely defined enemy these days. This time of year, with its forced cheer and gusting flurries and ever-accumulating bills, has never been a particular friend to Morse. He tugs his jacket closer around his shoulders, tugs at an earlobe, shuffles a few pages, keeps endlessly clicking.

“Right, time for the off, then, matey?” Strange’s voice pierces the pleasant haziness Morse has built up around himself. Losing oneself in case files is a perfectly practical way to distance oneself from the holidays, and Morse is a master of distraction, after all. He scrunches his face up and, with considerable effort, pulls his awareness back to his immediate surroundings.

“What were you here so late for?” he asks. 

“Planning meeting. Case?” Strange responds, with a nod to the haphazard clutter on Morse’s desk.

Morse barely manages not to roll his eyes. Of course it’s a case; what else would it be? Crime doesn’t stop just because the law-abiding folk have their collective eye on Christmas.

“String of thefts, and I don’t trust Robbery to get off their merry arses to look into it until well into January. Could use your eye on it, actually, if you—”

“Oh, no, no, not now you don’t. Come on, it’s full dark outside, we best be getting home. Might as well head back together.” Morse doesn’t miss how Strange almost reflexively reaches out to pin the folder to the desk when Morse moves to stuff it into his bag. He gave up on trying to enforce the “no work at home” rule about three months into sharing a flat, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try when the opportunity presents itself.

As they meander through the maze of desks, Morse spots something white and sort of… pointy on Trewlove’s desk. It looks almost like one of those paper snowflakes kids make, but that doesn’t quite fit with what he knows of Trewlove - she hardly seems the crafting type, and he knows for a fact that she hasn’t got any nieces or nephews who might have made it for her. Well, that’s a mystery for another day; and really, how well does he know his colleague? It’s not like she can’t develop hobbies without announcing it to the entire bullpen.

One significant upside to splitting rent between two people is living closer to the nick, a fact which also saves on bus fare, since it’s really close enough to walk. On days like today, however, which strive to drum up a reputation for Oxford as neighbor to the North Pole, Morse sort of resents the proximity. He turns up the collar of his car coat in a futile attempt to ward off the bitter cold, and finds himself trying not to begrudge Mrs Thursday for convincing her husband to take a few days off around the holidays. He misses the Jag for its warmth right now almost as much as the rumble of the engine and each familiar slope, corner, and curve of the dash.

When they reach the door to their flat, Morse and Strange come to an almost comically synchronous halt, both squinting in confusion at the threadbare wreath adorned with a ratty red bow which is now hanging on their door. Even as sleep-deprived as he was this morning, Morse is fairly confident he doesn’t recall seeing it there before. At once, both men turn to each other and ask, “Did you…?”

“Er… friendly neighbor?” Strange suggests.

“Or dotty Mrs Cunningham forgot which one was hers again,” Morse offers. 

With a shrug, Strange inserts the key in the lock and, as usual, has to shove against the door with his shoulder to get it to budge. Probably they should have someone in to fix it, considering how frequently it gets stuck, but the landlord has been successfully ignoring their requests for months and neither Morse nor Strange is particularly handy with tools, or in possession of sufficient funds to pay someone who is.

The instant he walks inside the thriftily-chilled flat, Morse’s jaw drops.

“Did Christmas explode in here?” he says before he catches himself, and at the same time, he hears Strange utter a startled, “Blimey.”

The wreath, it turns out, was just the beginning. Every surface is bedazzled with tinsel or popcorn strings, and fallen glitter has drifted to the ground everywhere. There are chipped, mismatched baubles hanging from doorknobs and drawer pulls, and fairy lights draped across the back of the couch cushions and wrapped around the legs of the side table. Heaven only knows where their mysterious Christmas elf found a free outlet to plug them into. Paper snowflakes are plastered on the cabinets and windows. Everything but the snowflakes looks a little shabby, like it’s spent a fair few years commuting between a dusty attic and the living room.

Something about the snowflakes niggles at the back of Morse’s mind, like a potential clue…

“You’re back!” cries a familiar voice. “Oh, I thought you wouldn’t be done for another hour yet. I haven’t finished with the kitchen yet. Oh, well. What do you think?”

Morse processes the holey, poinsettia-patterned oven mitts in Fancy’s hands before he processes that it is, in fact, Fancy holding them.

“George!” Strange says, equally caught off-guard but, as always, cheerful to his core. Then, more slowly, he asks, “Where did all this come from?”

“And more importantly, why?” Morse adds. Strange shoots him a glare that clearly reprimands him for his ingratitude, and Morse replies with a shrug to say, _Well, someone had to get the real answers!_

George shrugs a little and says airily, “Most of it’s from my parents’ house. They haven’t put any of this stuff out in years, so I figured I might as well put it to good use.” 

Morse darts an alarmed glance at the fairy lights and then Strange, and from the raised eyebrows he receives in return, it’s clear the worry over assumed fire hazard is mutual.

Fancy looks around, nodding as if satisfied, and continues, “Snowflakes I made this afternoon, and the nativity set on the countertop I filched from one of my flatmates.”

Morse chooses to comment on neither the clearly effective use of work time nor the irony of stealing baby Jesus.

“Fancy,” he begins, and Strange swiftly elbows him in the ribs. Obediently, Morse edits his next words before they leave his mouth. “Not to sound ungrateful or anything, but… any reason in particular you decorated our place and not, you know, yours?”

At that, Fancy’s face falls a little. “Well, it’s not as though I’ve got much space, sharing with five blokes in one flat,” he points out. “And aside from Luka, no one really got into the Christmas spirit this year. Even Luka gave up when he realized no one else would join in.” From this, Morse gathers that Luka is the unfortunate owner of the pilfered nativity set, a fact which Fancy goes on to confirm a moment later: “I mean, I’ll give the nativity set back when I’m done, but I’m sure he won’t miss it. And I can take this down, if you don’t like it…”

He’s giving them the most ridiculous puppy-dog eyes. Naturally, Strange shifts immediately into damage control mode. “No, no, don’t be daft. We love it, don’t we, matey?” He stares daggers at Morse, willing him to respond with appropriate enthusiasm. But before Morse can reply, Fancy jumps in.

“Wait, wait, don’t think I forgot you, Morse! Here…” Fancy leans down and picks up two filled mugs and extends one to each of them. Morse tries to subtly sniff his as he accepts it, although Fancy clears up any doubt as he explains with a grin, “Eggnog, pinched from the fridge at home. Now that they might miss, but listen, I’ve covered each of them at least once when they were short on the rent, so I figure they all owe me.”

Morse takes a deep swig and nods in approval. An abundance of alcohol is one thing this season does right.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” he asks Fancy. “We were just going to get takeaway, but we could watch something on the telly. Maybe a…” he racks his brain to think of something in season, “a… football match?”

“Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer is on at eight,” Fancy says immediately. Of course he’d have come with a plan.

“Think I watched that with my sister a couple years back,” Strange says. “Might not be Morse’s cup of tea, though. I could get out my trombone, maybe we could do some caroling…”

“No, that’s all right,” Morse says hastily. “Rudolph sounds great. Say, Fancy, do you have any more of this eggnog?”


End file.
